Thursday, July 30, 2009

Avignon, the summer of 1981, a dark July night. A small car French-made car is parked in the middle of a vague expanse of greenery, on a road through a vineyard perhaps—or so I hope, because it adds an otherwise absent touch of romance. The light is on inside the car, which makes it all the better to see the show, and yes, that’s 19-year-old me in the passenger seat (I know, “that is I” is grammatically correct but it sounds stupid), leaning over to perform fellatio a blond French fireman.

I’ve been meaning to fill in the details of this story for quite some, a tale I first announced as a random and embarrassing fact about me from my wilder-than-you’d-think-by-looking-at-me past. But I’m having a strangely hard time getting down to writing down this particular going-down story.

“Only a fool mistakes memory for fact” says Stephen Elliott via Erobintica. Indeed some of the details of my French fireman fellatio story are oddly vivid in my memory, many others have dissolved forever in the mists of the vineyards of southern France. And while my international encounter may sound very much like something from Penthouse letters in outline, the only “fact” I’m very sure of is that the scene evokes feelings in me that are hardly erotic according to the popular understanding of the word.

Blogging about what really happened in that car beyond a teaser synopsis somehow forces me to come up against the question of why I write about sex, a question I’m not always able to answer for myself. I claim to aim for “truth” in my erotica, a presentation of authentic sex between partners with complex emotions and dreams and desires beyond mere physical lust. Yet most of my stories I’ve been writing recently are meant to soothe the reader with the requisite two to three sex scenes that might involve some conflict but are guaranteed to end happily, with no lingering discomfort to disrupt any follow-on amorous activity the reader might want to engage in. That’s what an erotica writer should do.

And while I complain as much about the bleak portrayal of sexuality in the literary genre as the questionable authenticity of great sex between total strangers that is so common in sexually explicit stories, I have been known to write bleakly about my own sexual experiences. I suppose the problem is that the French fireman story does belong firmly in the “what the hell was I doing?” category of sexual memoir, when I’m somehow thinking my readers expect empowering, sex-positive erotica. And I don’t like to disappoint my readers.

Another problem is that I feel compelled to explain the broader context of why I came to be sitting in that car beyond “I let a French fireman pick me up at a disco and gave him a blowjob in his car.” This will take time. And blog stories should be, say, 800 words and no more.

Where are these should’s coming from anyway?

I say fuck the should’s. Or at least give them one hell of a blowjob.

And so, I decided to write the French fireman episode in a way that feels right to me, because that’s the story I want to tell after all.

I’m going to start with a prologue, which I’ll call “Men and Breasts.”

I was with the blond French fireman because my breasts are small. Make no mistake, I love my breasts and am very happy with them for many reasons. The nipples are exquisitely sensitive (not great when I was breastfeeding, but a boon the rest of the time). I don’t have to buy bras (except, again, when I was lactating) and when I run, there’s no flopping. I’m well aware that in America the big-breasted women get all the magazine covers and centerfolds, but I never cared in the least except reluctantly and almost anthropologically for one brief period of my life. Let’s call that the “meat market” phase, when I occasionally found myself at large keg parties and discos and other dark, loud places where the only way to choose a potential partner was by looks alone.

I was reminded of these unpleasant days a few months ago at a Seventies Party fundraiser for my son’s school. Many of the attendees were dressed in period clothing, which gave the event the feel of a disco of my youth. I was not dressed up, but naturally my eyes were drawn to the women strutting around in their tight clothes and go-go boots. Of course I noticed the boobs. How could you not notice the boobs? Boobs are noticeable by design. And in this context, a woman is not and cannot be judged by her witty conversation or her artistic endeavors or even her devotion to sensual pleasure in bed. She is judged by the size of her boobs. Intellectually, I can see all the reasons why this is so, many of the same reasons why I seldom went to bars and discos, but it still makes me feel…small.

The night I met the French fireman, I was at a disco on the outskirts of Avignon (you know, where the rival French pope took up residence during the “Babylonian Captivity” in the 14th century) with two other American woman from my summer-study-abroad program. One was my home-stay roommate, a fashionably cute and perky Georgetown Foreign Service School student, the other a sweet-faced blonde from Pennsylvania. We were invited to the place by a thirty something Frenchman named Daniel whom we met at a café on the main strip in the city one Saturday night. On the way to the club in his car, he stopped to pick up another local female friend, Jaqui, and kept telling her “Parlez doucement” because les Americaines didn’t understand French well. Actually he admitted I was pretty good, but the other two, and especially my roommate, his clear target, were indeed a bit shaky.

This happened a lot that summer. French guys we’d meet always told me my French was the best then made a pass at the woman sitting next to me. I guess they didn’t want to talk? It never happened in Japan, but breasts are not such a big deal there, which is surely one reason I liked the place so much. But I digress.

Fast forward to a table in the disco, at the edge of the dance floor, where the stylishly dressed Avignonese youth didn’t really dance together except during the slow songs. The rest of the time they stood facing a large mirror, their lazy gyrations infused with a certain masturbatory quality. (This happened in Japan, too, but by then I was used to it). No sooner had he settled the three of us with drinks, then Daniel quickly whisked away my roommate, who was never to be seen again until I returned to our Madame’s apartment that night. She told me Daniel eventually took her back to his house, invited her to accompany him on a trip to the Riviera and tried—and failed—to seduce her. She resisted his attempts by acting like she had no idea what he was trying to do, pushing her “dumb American” act to its logical conclusion. Can’t talk, can’t fuck.

Actually my roommate was a pretty witty woman, but that’s another story.

There’s another gap in my memory now. I’m not sure how the remaining two of us ended up with two other Frenchman at our table. They might have been friends of Daniel or not. One was dark and crafty-looking with curly hair, the other a slim, shy blond with a trademark French nose. They were both in their very early twenties. The darker man was very courtly and talkative, while his friend just observed and smoked a Gauloise. I remember the operator’s name was Patrice, and after about four seconds, he zeroed in on my companion, the sweet blonde. Who also had big boobs.

At one point, Patrice asked my friend to slow dance, leaving me and the shy guy, Christophe, to talk—or not talk—alone.

That’s when I learned he was a fireman. “Je suis pompier,” he told me, flexing a muscle rather adorably. Here’s the thing I realize now. I was clearly the third pick, the booby prize, so to speak, as I often was in such situations. Being the last to be chosen for the team depressed me and although I tried to ignore it, it made me want to prove myself, or rather prove they were wrong for choosing as they did. In both Europe and America, if I was with other women in some pickup situation out in the "real world" (rather than the protective college world which was somehow kinder to flat-chested females), the outgoing, aggressive guy would always reach for the one with perky, evident breasts. It happened on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence when the ringleader of another threesome, a cute guy who worked in a drycleaner’s, singled out the girl with the largest breasts and I was “stuck” with the guy who’d studied in Germany, because we could both stumble through a conversation in that language. The guy who knew German was actually pretty nice.

Strange how it occurs to me only now that the quieter men I ended up with tended to be “my kind” anyway. Christophe was more handsome and much sweeter than Patrice, after all. My American friend’s story of the rest of her evening is proof as she reported later with a sneer of disgust that he mauled her and resisted taking no for an answer until she fought him off and insisted he take her home.

Hmm, maybe this isn’t such a pathetic story after all? By “losing,” I won in a way. As did Christophe, who was the only cruising dude to actually get off that night, if the other reports are accurate.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Today is Bottom’s Up Spike Day, so don’t forget to head over to Amazon to buy your copy! Come on, wouldn’t it feel extra good to start your week by messing with the computer mind of a hegemonic Internet merchant?

But the fun doesn’t stop there. I have another spanking good treat for you, because today is Tiramisu Day here at Sex, Food, and Writing. I just love tiramisu and order it whenever I have the chance in restaurants, but often what appears on the plate before me is, well, predictable. I keep ordering it though, because when it’s good, there’s no dessert more sublime than a thoughtful, complex, rich, creamy tiramisu.

Thoughtful, complex, but with a sexy hit of booze and sensual indulgence. It kind of reminds me of a great sexy short story collection I read a while back called American Cool. That’s why I just had to beg Susan DiPlacido for her recipe for tiramisu. I have to confess I have a number of very sensual fantasies about Susan. One involves dressing up in my cheong sam and lounging languidly at the blackjack table beside her in some grand Vegas hotel. I’ll just be watching, but Susan will be playing, a pomegranate cocktail by her side, and she’ll win big.

Don’t even get me started on my dream of attending one of her Big Night style multi-course Italian feasts for her family that earn her standing ovations from some very discriminating diners. Actually, I have a pretty indulgent food and travel fantasy about things I’d like to do with everyone of my wonderful regular visitors here at my blog, but I probably should keep that between us (although Isabel Kerr has already scooped me on the one I have about her in her "Woman for All Seasons" interlude right here).

Generous as always, Susan kindly agreed to send me her take on tiramisu. It’s the kind of recipe I love now, but would have been terrified to tackle in the past. Until distressingly recently, I used to follow a recipe for everything I made, but in the past few years I’ve gotten much more adventurous and I love my new freedom to experiment and create and trust myself. Susan’s recipe invites you to do just that, although I’m not sure which version to try first. I already have a fresh tin of Hershey’s cocoa to make fudge for my son’s birthday party, so I might just have to go for the chocolate. I’m also thinking about using pannetone at Christmastime. And the photo above is a strawberry version of the classic. Which one appeals to you? Or do you have your own special recipe?

Tiramisu a la DiPlacido

Zabaglione:

4 egg yolks, room temp
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 c Marsala wine (that's the basic, which I rarely use anymore. I often sub/add something citursy instead, most often orange juice/rum for a nice kick if I make it chocolate flavored)

Cook that while whisking over a double boiler until it's big and fluffy.

Whip up pint of heavy cream and then fold that into it.

THEN, here comes a big variation. Sometimes, I make the mascarpone mixture and keep it separate for extra layers, or sometimes I mix it in with the zabaglione part, flavors depending. I like to make a chocolate mascarpone a lot, and keep it separate from the zabag if it's orangey. But if I do a marsala thing, I just make a plain mascarpone mix and put 'em together. I just make the difference this way:

Mascarpone filling:

1 c mascarpone
2 egg yolks
1/4 c sugar
beat it all up.

If I want it chocolate, I melt, I don't know, about a good handful of dark chocolate in just about a half pint of heavy cream, with a dollop of butter and a wee pinch of salt. And then I mix that into the mascarpone. (If I'm doing traditional, with marsala, zabag and espresso soaked stuff, I put a little kahlua flavor in here, too)

Then I use whatever's on hand for the layering. People can stfu about ladyfingers being the only proper thing, cuz they're not. I like to use Chocolate cake. (the BEST chocolate cake recipe is the one on the Hershey Cocoa box. You can jazz it up by using a premium cocoa, but still follow the Hershey recipe, because it's sooo moist and dark chocolate good.) Just cut it in half so the liquid you soak it in soaks in. The "standard" liquid is a cup of espresso, 1/2 c sugar, and 1/4 c dark rum. Again, I screw with this a lot and often change the rum to a different flavor to brighten it up, like Grand Marnier and oj, but that's only if I use chocolate cake instead of lady fingers. That's about it, really.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Isabel's descriptions of Tuscany's season bounty, her recipe for gingery Cold Lemon Chicken, and her story of an in the flesh affair with Ginger will have you dizzy with lust. Or is it love?

Add to that a celebration of the lawyer who made erotica legal, and you've got one very succulent Sunday party al fresco. Plus, you'll have such a craving for a warm slab of gingerbread cake with half-melted ice cream, you may just have to bake a batch. So jet on over to Isabel's, no passport required!

Friday, July 24, 2009

I just saw a chart in a foodie magazine showing how July is the high season for almost every stone fruit and berry: peaches, nectarines, apricots, cherries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, not to mention melons like cantaloupe, orange flesh honeydew, galia, sharlyn.... This time the press is not lying, I'm literally moaning with delight at the bounty of tempting, fragrant fruits on my kitchen counter today (I hate refrigerating fruit if I can help it 'cause it seriously destroys the ripe flavor). I don't think of myself as religious in any way, but I will agree with a man I overheard at the Farmer's Market: "When I bite into an Arctic Jay nectarine, I know there is a God."

What does this have to do with spanking? Well, the latest treat in my ripe, juicy, bursting-sweet literary July just arrived in my mailbox, Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories, edited by the empress of the spanking genre, Rachel Kramer Bussel. The anthology is full of delicious stories by Craig Sorensen, Gwen Masters, Stan Kent, Sommer Marsden, and Alison Tyler, and of course, yours truly. In fact, I start off the anthology, I'd guess because my story is about a couple's very first spanking. Although the woman doesn't know it yet. You'll have to read the story to find out what I mean!

I also wanted to announce a very special promotion involving Bottoms Up. If you purchase the book from Amazon this coming Monday, July 27, and send your receipt to Rachel (spankingantho at gmail dot com), you'll be eligible for a chance to win your own paddle (up to a $60 value and you get to choose from what's available on Amazon) and a complete library of Rachel's spanking books. I'm going to be doing my Christmas shopping early, so see you over at Amazon on Monday! Check out the guidelines for Bottoms Up Spike Day right here.

If you're wondering about the visual aid above--although you probably have a reasonable idea of why I might choose it to illustrate a post on spanking--I had my house photographer take this to show the lovely Emerald my school girl outfit. Make that my naughty school girl outfit. Guess the name of my school in the comments below and I'll send you the full text of my story "A Thousand Words" (actually 2600 words, but who's counting?). Actually, I'm not really doing a contest, I'm just curious to see what names you creative people will come up with....

Speaking of which, it's time for an excerpt from the aforementioned story. It's told from the male POV, always a forbidden pleasure and challenge for me. Enjoy!

From "A Thousand Words" by Donna George Storey:

Tamara once told him anger was a message, a sign you should change something in your life. She was always reading those get-in-touch-with-your-inner-self books, but what she said made sense this time. Maybe this week’s separation was a good thing, a chance to breathe. In the last three months they’d gotten so close, they were practically welded together.

His dick seemed to agree, for now it drooped lazily against his groin. With a shrug he got up, undressed, brushed his teeth. He’d make a point of putting Tamara out of his mind for the next few days, get a little space in his life. If she wanted to talk, she could call him.

Braced by his new indifference, he pulled down the covers, got into bed and reached over to switch off the light.

He paused, his hand floating above the nightstand. There it was again—that picture of Tamara’s ass.

And it was one hell of an ass, too.

He picked up the photograph, his eyes fixed on the rich curves of her hips. The silky fabric of the panties shimmered, the paper itself seemed to soften in his hands. The real Tamara might be off at a club, flirting with some guy named Ryan, but he had her best asset right here in bed with him.

What the fuck, jerking off always made him sleep better anyway.

Still staring at the picture, he slipped imaginary fingers under the elastic and slowly peeled the panties down, inch by inch. The black silk receded to reveal Tamara’s creamy flesh, the shadow of another female furrow. He’d licked her there, for the first time, last night. His tongue prickled with the memory of the flavor, spicy, exotic, forbidden.

He closed his fist around his cock and began to tug.

Meanwhile his other set of hands pulled the panties all the way down to her knees and over her ankles off the edge of the picture, where they fell in a heap on the floor. He squinted at the picture. Tamara was completely naked now, just the way he liked her. Then, to his surprise, her hips began to undulate, beckoning. He could even smell her fragrance, yeast and warmth, like walking past a bakery in the morning.

He was good at this.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but what about a movie? It was time for action. In another blink, he grabbed Tamara’s hips and coaxed her up on her knees. He had to pause for a moment to admire that view: her magnificent posterior tapering into a slim waist, curving out again to her smooth shoulders. Her back was flushed now. She panted softly. And although she said not a word, he could hear the question swirling in her head.

What are you going to do to me now?

What indeed?....

So, that's your excerpt, and I stop just at the place where it starts getting harder and hotter! Now reading through this bit again, I was reminded that back in my days of wasting time at the Zoetrope writer's workshop rather than here in Blogland, a very confident gentleman critic told me, among other things meant to correct my numerous literary flaws, that the expression "rich curves" (which I used in "Blinded") was really stupid. Because how could "curves" be "rich"? I guess we could ask models and porn stars and race car drivers, but strictly speaking he is right that the particular adjective is not commonly used with that noun. But clearly I did not internalize his advice, even all these years later. I'm glad.

Still, I'd say Bottoms Up is a very rich anthology. If you're into "rough caresses" or just curious, I recommend you give it a read, preferably bent over your bed in a school girl's skirt, ass high in the air!

Monday, July 20, 2009

Hey, it's always good to take a little breather between the main course and dessert--even if it is a few days since we tried the Spicy Thai Tofu! Today I wanted to share a recipe for a dessert that always gets rave reviews from kids and adults alike (including M. Christian and Sage Vivant when they popped over for a fondue dinner last winter), plus it's so easy to make and very forgiving if you forget it in the oven for an extra minute or two. Cakes can be very finicky, which is why I imagine cake mixes are so popular, although who wants all of that processed crap in the name of a moist texture that lasts for days? This almond tea cake is naturally moist thanks to the almond paste, and in fact is reminiscent of good marzipan. It even impressed a French friend, a veteran restaurant manager, who explicitly praised the moistness, in a charming accent, naturally. As we erotica writers know, moist is good, so next time you want to treat yourself to a simple, elegant and delicious treat, try this. You deserve it. Oh, and it goes well with fresh summer fruit, too!

The recipe calls for optional dried fruit, but since I have kids they vetoed that and I've never tried it. Also, I use a high quality almond paste I order from King Arthur Flour (which also sells an Italian-style flour that makes exquisite pizza crust and a great Tahitian vanilla). But I have made it with the brand available in my supermarket and it doesn't suffer much.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The champagne is flowing, the green beans are fresh from the vine, the dill hummus is all over my fingers and I'm licking it off slowly, lovingly as I listen to spicy writers from near and far discuss their favorite moment of the creative process. I'm learning a lot--for example, did you know a big old tuft of dill weed makes a great sex toy? Or that fennel and dill have a thing goin' on? But I'm not going to give away all of the secrets. Head on over to the dill-ectable party! You'll be dill-ighted you di(lle)d.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

If you couldn't be at Hustler Hollywood on Wednesday, July 8 to hear me read from my steamy freedom sex story "Suit and Tie" (or as they'd say in German "Anzug und Krawatte") as part of In the Flesh LA's Freedom Sex celebration, the full report with photos is now in so you can be there in virtual reality! I love the picture of that phallic microphone flanked by a copy of my novel, Amorous Woman. And you'll also see a repeat performance of my famous corset/Hello Kitty thong pic (which I always wear when I'm having phone sex).

I have to say I had a wonderful time purring into the telephone. Aural sex is very satisfying somehow--part of my auditeur nature, no doubt. Maybe it's time to pull out my own microphone and record some more podcasts?

Friday, July 17, 2009

I hear this is typical of teenagers, but my oldest is pretty tight-lipped about what's going on in his life most of the day. But come nine in the evening and he opens up like a wonderful book, a beautiful flower, a bottle of good wine. That's when we have our best talks, that's when we get to know the new adult he's becoming.

Yesterday I took him to the doctor to get the required physical to play on a sports team in high school and because he's a teenager now, there's a part of the exam that state law requires is confidential, meaning mom is kicked out of the examination room. I actually think this is a great thing for kids, but it's yet another reminder of his growing up. He didn't say much about what went on behind closed doors until, of course, after nine pm last night.

Apparently (and not surprisingly) the doctor asked him questions about use of cigarettes, drugs, and alcohol. He also asked him "Now remember, if you decide to have sex, you should always use....?" My son knew he was supposed to fill in the blank. And he had a very good idea of what he was supposed to say. Condom. But for an instant his mind was floundering for another possible correct answer. What would the right answer be?

When you have sex, you always need....a girl?

When you have sex, you always need....a bed?

We were all laughing at these replies, when dad chimed in with: When you have sex, you always need....to put on a Barry White tune to set the mood.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Okay, I haven't made a lot of progress on my new novel yet, but I'm making progress on getting into the right mindset for it. My ever-supportive spouse suggested one possible way to make time to focus on my work would be to "make less interesting food" for dinner. I've taken him up on that offer for the most part, although in the summer time what more do you need than some steamed fresh vegetables, a fruit salad and bread and cheese (and wine)? But now and then I get the itch to cook something just a little bit special and I gave into the urge yesterday.

I'll share my recipe for almond cake tomorrow, a favorite of child and adult alike, but before you have dessert, you have to eat your good food! And my Spicy Thai Tofu is pretty darn good for a home-cooked meal--and gets high marks from Herr Doktor, who's been to Thailand many times. You won't mistake it for a Thai restaurant dish, but it's also far less oily and has a lightness that makes you feel healthy as well as satisfied. The original recipe came from Bon Appetit magazine, but I don't exactly follow the recipe. For example, they say use "3 green onions," but what do you do with the other three? So I just toss the whole bunch in. Same with basil, although I try to buy some Thai basil, which comes in a smaller quantity than your typical California basil which is usually enough for a whole batch of pesto. But why use 1/3 cup when a big old handful tastes much better? So, I'll be giving you the recipe just as I make it, a peek into my kitchen, if you will. And if you're up for a little spice to keep you going until our next Spicy Sunday at Jeremy's, this might be your ticket!

Spicy Summer Thai Tofu ala DGS

Mix together in a medium bowl:

2 large red bell peppers, sliced or cubed3 Tablespoons peeled and minced fresh ginger (I use a big knob that probably made 1 1/2 Tablespoons and that was plenty) 3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

Place 2 Tablespoons of peanut oil in a wok and heat to high. Add bell pepper mix and saute about 2 minutes. Add tofu mixture and saute another 2 minutes. Add the sauce and toss to blend about one minute.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

I've been trying to psych myself up to tell the tale of the French firefighter (see fact #3) for a few weeks now. It's just not that easy because it's a very different project than my usual erotic story. I have to deal with the fact that my sexual adventures of my early years were less about erotic joy than a poignant attempt to affirm my desirability. Young women are the main focus of society's lustful eye, and yet they seem the least equipped to enjoy their sexuality in a subjective way. But I do want to tackle this eventually.

Today is Bastille Day (although it's almost over in France) and that brought back another interesting memory of my summer in Avignon, not related to the firefighter directly, but all part of the same box of souvenirs.

A group of students from my French language program and I decided to go into Avignon for the fireworks on Bastille Day. I did a lot of things with the gang that I might not otherwise have done, because I tend to avoid crowds, but this seemed almost a necessary event for an American. The crowds were assembled around the famous Pont d'Avignon where the fireworks display would appear (speaking of fireworks displays, if you haven't read Emerald's fabulous story, go do it right now) and as the start time approached more and more people arrived until the crowd was pretty dense.

I remember standing there gazing up into the starry sky and probably humming "Sur le pont d'Avignon" to myself when suddenly wham! A body slammed into me from behind and a hand grabbed my buttock and squeezed roughly. The butt grabber was clearly experienced. He managed to get a handful, his fingers jammed fairly deep in my crack, so that the total effect was one of violation rather than just a casual pat on the rear. I heard a deep voice muttering something in French and then my molester evaporated into the crowd.

That was it, although the mildly painful sensation of his fingers pressing into my tender flesh lingered.

This had never happened to me in the US. Verbal assaults, yes, but I'd been fortunate enough to have escaped physical violation. Later that month, on the way to Italy, our Rome-bound train was stopped in a Marseilles train yard and my friends and I were gazing out the window at an apparently empty car next to us. Suddenly a male figure stepped out of the shadows . He dropped his trousers and started masturbating. We let out a collective "euw" and fortunately the train began to move on. Again I was in college and it was hardly traumatic, but what was the guy doing there anyway? Perhaps he greeted each train as it arrived? "Welcome to Marseilles, here's my penis"?

Now I have plenty of other memories of my first trip to Europe--the breakfasts of cafe au lait and tartines, a concert in the Pope's Palace, the oddly haunting hill towns of Provence that made me believe in reincarnation--but the storming of my Bastille will always be the first thing that comes to mind when July 14 rolls around.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Fruit and vegetable markets are just so sexy. I went wild at Monterey Market on Friday, filling my cart with fresh local corn, orange bell peppers, blushing Blenheim apricots, an orange-flesh honeydew melon, a local cantaloupe that had an irresistibly lovely fragrance, plump cherries that are still under $2 a pound and very tasty (I tried one), Kika's Farms plump, red strawberries at ninety-eight cents a pint (the lower the price, the higher the season). Who can resist all of that perfect sun-ripened sweetness of July fruit? Add to that organic peaches and figs in my organic farm box and our house was overflowing with juicy bounty. My mouth was already watering when the mail arrived to deliver the best treat of all: my contributor's copy of Xcite's Sex and Satisfaction 2, edited by Miranda Forbes.

Not only is the male cover boy juicy in himself--and obviously ready to get wet--the stories inside are positively delicious. I'm sandwiched between Carmel Lockyer, who writes a very sexy tale involving "The Pirates," and Jeremy Edwards, whose "Moistened by Mercer" puts a whole new spin on the usually boring task of copying documents at the office. To finish up the anthology, Sommer Marsden serves up a very sweet three-way dessert with her "Girl Crush."

My story "Saint Valentine," celebrates the sensual appeal of a Green Party, Buddhist vegan. I confess I find left-leaning, spiritually-minded men very intriguing. Fortunately they grow wild in my part of the world, including my very own backyard! The story also includes an aphrodisiac dinner, the menu of which I will include for your food porn pleasure. "I expected seitan and sprouts, but Justin serves me a lavish salad of organic greens, porcini risotto, and a subtly earthy Barbera. Dessert is almost decadent: four different bars of fair-trade dark chocolate that Justin suggests we taste in a flight like wine." The "tasting" also involves lots of kissing, so don't think vegans don't have a sensual side.

In the mood for more? Well, I always want my visitors to have their sex and their satisfaction, too.

An excerpt from "Saint Valentine":

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with a vegan.

To be honest, it’s more ‘in lust.’ I met Justin two months ago when he joined our theatre troupe as the lighting director. I flirt with him outrageously, but that is my specialty. On stage I play the vamps, the lusty barmaids, the whorehouse madams in crimson bustiers. All the roles a full-figured temptress plays to perfection. Justin flirts back, but I sense a reserve, as if he means to stay above life’s coarser urges. After rehearsal, when we all go off to the pub to polish off pitchers of beer and potato skins with bacon and sour cream, Justin takes a seat at the end of the table and sips a single glass of red wine.

Though I chug and gobble with the rest of them, I secretly admire my vegan saint. I find his willingness to deny himself carnal gratification for a higher principle unbearably sexy. But, because I really am a bad girl at heart, I also want to defile his purity, pull him down onto my hot, rumpled sheets for a fleshly feast that lasts for nights on end.

Which is probably why I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask him out—good, old-fashioned Catholic-girl guilt.

Fortunately, Justin is a Buddhist.

‘Would you like to come to my place for dinner Thursday night?’ He pops the question as I’m lounging backstage, waiting for my next scene.

‘That’s Valentine’s Day,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yes. Do you have other plans?’

Nothing I couldn’t cancel to get a mouthful of you. That’s what I think, what I say is, ‘I was just planning to hang out at home hoping a prince would ride by with some chocolate and roses.’

‘You’re not going to let candy corporations and florists brainwash you with their profit-making fantasies, are you?’ He smiles, but I sense he’s not really kidding.

‘It just so happens I like chocolate and flowers. I even buy them for myself now and then,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Of course, you probably think I’m a dupe of consumer capitalism with my silly dreams.’

He holds my gaze steadily for what seems like forever. His eyes flicker with a tiny golden flame, warming me, melting me. I realise I haven’t breathed in quite some time.

‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘I hope a wholesome, organic meal with a nice wine will be an acceptable alternative to that propaganda.’

I swallow and nod, strangely at a loss for words. But although I’m acting like a love-sick female, in one tiny corner of my mind, I’m still as clear and calculating as ever. Why not accept his invitation? There’s a risk Justin might spend the night lecturing me on organic farming techniques and corporate manipulation of consumers, but there’s an upside, too. It’s also my golden chance to slither my way inside his monk’s cell--and hopefully his bed. With temptations of the flesh so near, even he might find it impossible to resist my generous charms.

Instead temptation comes to visit me in my bed. That night I dream I’m lying on my back on some kind of stone slab, my thighs spread wide like a virgin sacrifice. Justin stands before me, wearing priestly black and a serene smile. Then his gaze falls to my pussy, swollen and exposed, and suddenly the smile stretches into satyr’s leer. I try to sit up or at least pull my gauzy shift down to cover myself, but I discover I’m bound to the slab, totally at his mercy.

My pussy tingles and throbs and a warm wetness trickles under my thighs. I know I’m shamefully aroused down there, and Justin knows it, too. He’s staring at me with glowing eyes and licking his lips with a moist red tongue. Just then liquid dribbles from the corner of his mouth, not drool but something opalescent and viscous like jism. He bends to taste my offering, grinning and slobbering, and in spite of myself my hips arch up to meet him. I know his terrible transformation from saint to sinner is my fault. Though my body is twitching and trembling in anticipation of that nimble tongue on my secret lips, a scream rises in my chest—Stop! You don’t eat meat!—but no sound comes.

I wake up drenched in sweat, troubled, but undeniably horny. Dipping my hand between my legs to masturbate, I pretend my finger is Justin’s greedy tongue, lapping and licking with devotion. I imagine him kneeling down there between my legs, his head bobbing slightly as he works me over. I hear the click of my wet flesh as he feasts, savor the vision of him pausing to smile up at me to whisper—delicious--his lips and chin shimmering with my juices in the moonlight. When I climax, I make plenty of noise, partly because it’s hot jilling off to the thought of Justin’s mouth on my pussy, partly to reassure myself dreams don’t always come true.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

And I'm not talking a threesome involving Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson from "Police Woman," although that might help, too. If you want to find out more about the power of pepper, get a peek into a shocking Idaho scandal, feast on a few nostalgic pics of Angie Dickinson, and get all drooly over a summer barbecue feast of pepper steak, baked potatoes, grilled corn on the cob and a Diet Dr. Pepper (can I have this for breakfast?), then head over to Craig Sorensen's summer spice party for some fine food and excellent peppery prose.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Google Alerts. I clearly don't understand how to sign up for them. I faithfully receive an alert every time I post something on my own blog. This is extremely useful to me...not. Otherwise I occasionally get a notice about someone else's post from two months ago mentioning me that a savvier friend told me about when it actually happened. What am I doing wrong?

Anyway, I did get an interesting alert this morning and since it's my first ever marginally entertaining bit of info, I just had to celebrate by blogging about it. (I'll also open a bottle of hearty Italian wine from Kermit Lynch tonight as well. Okay, I was going to do that anyway, but it's nice to have a reason).

Apparently, "Sex, Food and Writing" ranks #29 on the list of Top 50 Blogs in Princeton. I'm ranked alongside intriguing blogs with such titles as "Things to Be Miserable About," "Mommy CEO," "NY Injury Blog," and "Trees of Buenos Aires."

Thursday, July 09, 2009

It may seem a leap from an ode to "I Dream of Jeannie" to the graduation ceremony at Lancaster University (John of Gaunt's Lancaster in the UK, not the pale copy I'll be visiting in Pennsylvania in a month), but you can't deny master erotica writer Ashley Lister has much in common with the Barbara Eden character when you're talking amazing talents and feats of wonder.

Most of us are familiar with Ashley's witty and wild erotic short stories and his nonfiction books, Swingers: True Confessions from Today's Swinging Scene and Swingers: Female Confidential, but just this week, he's added another accomplishment to the impressive list by receiving his Bachelor's Degree with first-class Honors in English Language, Literature and Creative Writing from the aforementioned Lancaster University. Ashley ranked first in his class and thus was invited to give a speech--he'd be called valedictorian in the US, but such a designation doesn't exist in the UK.

I can't think of any speaker I'd rather have on the roster at a graduation ceremony, but when I asked Ashley if he used the opportunity to bestow much-needed tips on writing effectively about sex to his listeners, he said he saves that advice for the creative writing classes he's teaching and will continue to teach at the university. (Lucky students!) He reported that since his talk concluded the ceremony he thought "it was mainly a signal to the graduates that the boring graduation ceremony was finished and everyone could rush out to binge on free coffee and cakes." (Mmm, cakes... Maids of Honor? Currant scones with fresh strawberry jam and clotted cream?) The following eloquent quote, however, got high praise from the audience: "In the last three years I’ve been introduced to an array of mind-blowing theories; a wealth of ways to explore my creativity; and a class of great and innovative thinkers who I shall always treasure as friends."

I'm getting a little sniffly, too, actually.

In conclusion, I'd like to extend my congratulations to Ashley for his impressive accomplishment. I wish I could have been in the audience clapping, but trust all of my good wishes will sail smoothly across an ocean.

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Summer is the season of bounty and it just so happens I have an exceptional harvest of erotica anthologies headed my way this month. The first sweet treat just arrived--my contributor's copies of Pleasure Bound: True Bondage Stories, edited by Alison Tyler, and including juicy stories by some of my favorite eroticists, Shanna Germain, Kristina Lloyd, Nikki Magennis, Sommer Marsden, and Kristina Wright, along with some very enticing newcomers.I have a special fondness for my story in this anthology, "Yes, Master," which is inspired by the TV show "I Dream of Jeannie." It's not exactly about bondage in the handcuffs-and-tethers kind of way, but wasn't poor Jeannie bound to her master in a very provocative way? Although Barbara Eden was not allowed to show her belly button, I am positive the characters in this silly sit-com starred in many a very naughty scenario in the steamy fantasies of male and female viewers alike. What follows below is all true. And it makes me wonder--which TV shows sparked your erotic imagination? Come on, tell us your true story!

The opener from "Yes, Master":

My obsession with Major Anthony Nelson was probably the only thing that kept me going that summer. I’d scored a supposedly prestigious internship at the State Department (okay, in real life it was the IRS but they beat the State Department in offering me a job)—I dreamed of joining the Foreign Service in college—but my only apparent diplomatic function was to make copies and file documents. That and act as a sort of office decoration, because every time I turned around I caught my fifty-year-old supervisor, Mr. Lemon, staring at my ass.
A career in the civil service was quickly losing its appeal.

After the long, sweaty commute home, I was ready for some serious relaxation. So I went up to my room, stripped down to my underwear and switched on “I Dream of Jeannie” reruns until Mom called me downstairs for dinner. I’d do a little belly dance to the opening credits, then settle back on my bed to float along with the zany hi-jinks and comic misunderstandings. After a while, I wasn’t even really paying attention to the story. I was just giving old Major Nelson the eye and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Didn’t he have a dick? Here he had this beautiful blonde female ready to do whatever he wished, and all he asked her to do was make dinner when he got home from astronaut training.

By the commercial break, I was still staring at the TV, but I was long lost in my own much hotter show about what those two would really do if Major Nelson had a functioning heterosexual libido. It was all pretty filthy. The Master was always in control, of course, and he’d tell her, “No more blinking and nodding, we’re doing this my way.” Then he’d take scissors and snip holes in her costume to expose her nipples and blonde thatch so he could caress her naughty parts as she served him dinner.

Next it was off to the bedroom where he’d make her dance and rub her breasts and finger her pussy right in front of him, while he asked her dirty questions—Is this making you wet, Jeannie? Have you been dreaming of fucking me all day when you were cooped up in your little bottle? And she’d have to say “Yes, Master,” because it was true. Sometimes he’d even make her masturbate with her bottle before he’d give her what she really wanted—his big, heat-seeking missile thrusting inside her. Once they were fucking he’d let her use her powers again to do it in all kinds of kinky genie-only positions. My favorite variation was the “magic carpet” where she’d be impaled on his cock, but levitated with her legs crossed in front of her. With a blink and a nod, she’d twirl round and round on him like a corkscrew until he shot his wad into her with a deep groan.

Of course, all the while I was doing everything the Master commanded, too, palming my tits and strumming my clit, then kneeling on my bed, as if I were straddling him, and wiggling my ass like an exotic dancer. I got so hot imagining his smoldering gaze stroking me like a wet tongue, his soft, but stern voice urging me on to greater depravities, that I came with a muffled groan of my own, just in time for Mom’s dulcet “Dinner’s ready” floating up from the kitchen.
Yes, Major Nelson--or rather my Major Nelson, the sexually insatiable dom--sure helped me get through a long, hot summer.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Because I write erotica and sometimes blog about sexuality, I’ve been asked with some frequency if I’d read Mary Roach’s Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex. To be honest, early reviews of the book turned me off. The focus seemed to be on whacky and weird sex experiments that elicited a cringing response more than genuine curiosity or enlightenment. I was also concerned that the reported humor in the book would be less wit than stand-up comedy-style quips, both masking and screaming out our society’s adolescent squeamishness about sex. I wasn’t totally off base on either count, but when I finally did crack the covers of Bonk, I was pleasantly surprised to find a fascinating and witty journey through the labs of scientific pioneers who refuse to be called perverts. Sadly scientists face the same prejudice as fiction writers when it comes to exploring human sexuality. Roach describes her book as “a tribute to the men and women who dared,” as indeed it is. For example, who ever heard of Robert Latou Dickinson, a gynecologist who was documenting clear-eyed information about female sexual desire as early as 1890? Did you know the birth control pill lowered women’s libidos? (I did, but it’s nice to have it scientifically confirmed). Sure you’ll know more about pig foreplay than you probably want to, but the book is definitely thought-provoking and entertaining. Anyone who might be hoping a major publisher cleverly slipped a one-handed read onto the shelves of respectable bookstores will be disappointed, but if you are interested in the intersection of sexuality, culture and history, I guarantee your eyes will light up when you read Bonk.

That’s my what I said on Amazon. Here are a few notes I took while I was reading:

There was definitely some snickering prudery in this book, including many jokes pointing out how ridiculous sex is, how absurd to watch videos with a sensor in your female body cavity, etc. While laughing at and with sex is healthy, I wonder if a more comfortable attitude would have passed with a big publisher like Norton? It’s as if they needed the “science” as well as the “isn’t sex weird and quirky and absurd” to make the book safe, so they wouldn’t be accused of—gasp—turning their readers on. And we know what kind of sick perverts write to turn the reader on!

Dr. Robert Latou Dickinson, who practiced gynecology on tenement dwellers in Brooklyn Heights in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, reminded me a lot of the doctor I spoofed in my Women’s Fantasies piece. However, it’s also sad his insights didn’t reach a wider audience sooner (unlike my Dr. Jeremy, who really was a pervert!).

Apparently the distance between a woman’s clitoris and urethra is a good indication of how easily she reaches orgasm during intercourse. Short, small-breasted women tend to have a shorter distance. “The stereotypical ideal female--Barbie tall with Barbie big breasts--is the one least likely to respond to manly hammering.” (Right now little ole flat-chested me is smiling a great big Barbie smile.)

Did you know that only 1/10th of the clitoris is visible? I learned about this, or rather had it confirmed, from a fascinating sex guide called Are We Having Fun Yet?: The Intelligent Woman's Guide to Sex by Marcia and Lisa Douglass (now sadly out of print but doing better on Amazon than my book at times). Yes, there’s more to women than meets the eye. We also have “morning boners”—it’s not just your imagination.

I loved this line: “The human vagina is accustomed to visitors.” It sounds so friendly! The entrance is even called the “vaginal vestibule.” (As Mary Roach quips: Take off your coat and stay awhile.)

In a 1973 study, researchers put a group of students in a pitch-black room and assured them whatever they did, they would leave the experiment alone without ever seeing the others. An infrared camera recorded the proceedings (which, presumably were not used to blackmail the participants). Ninety percent touched a stranger, fifty percent hugged and an unspecified amount “necked.” This reminds me of a play tryout in college in 1980—the director was a bit of a sadist and voyeur—where the assembled would-be cast members were asked to close our eyes and move about the room to show how we interact in a group. Lots of heavy breathing and staggering about, and I remember encountering one particular male several times. What transpired definitely moved beyond touching to groping after the first few times we literally bumped into each other. I think I feel a story coming on… Thanks, Ms. Roach, for taking me on trip down memory lane!

And whew, there is a documented link between birth control pills and low libido. The pill puts you into menopause hormonally. Only one in four women complain. I did and the doctor looked at me like I was a freak. But I stopped anyway. Good for me for listening to my body.

Finally, Roach gave us what most readers probably picked up the book to find out. What’s the secret to great sex? Studies appearing in Masters and Johnson’s Homosexuality in Perspective (1979) give us a not-so-earth-shattering answer. All the participating couples, gay and straight, reached orgasm. But the gay and lesbian couples had the amazing sex rather than just the efficient sex. How can you do what they did? Take your time and enjoy your partner’s pleasure rather than approaching sex as a goal-oriented “let’s get it done” task that the 1979 het couples favored. Plus there was a “gender empathy” factor involved as well. Hard to borrow that one, although Roach allows that us poor heterosexuals are better educated about good sex than we were back then. I know I’ve made great strides since 1979! Yet I can’t help but make the connection between the slow, thoughtful celebration of sensuality you find in (most) erotica and those very factors that make for transcendent sex.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Hump day is going to be especially exciting this week, because I'm going to be the featured phone sex voice at "In the Flesh LA" organized by the very generous and ever-creative Stan Kent and banana-luscious erotica writer Jolene Hui (her story from Sex and Candy, "Banana Afternoon," featuring homemade cupcakes and naked lovers on a hot day is a mainstay of my fantasy life!). I'm very excited to be joining the ranks of such esteemed in-the-flesh phone sex veterans as Jeremy Edwards, D.L. King and Alison Tyler.

The theme is Freedom Sex in honor of Independence Day and I'll be remotely purring an excerpt from my story "Suit and Tie" first published in She's on Top, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Temp receptionist Megan finds relief from the bureaucratic grind through "self-pleasuring" breaks, but when her boss walks in on her one day (it's one of those co-ed restrooms in a suite and naturally she forgot to lock the door), the tables turn and she starts calling the shots. Yet, the erotic life being what it is, boss Steve discovers bondage brings its own special form of liberation.

If you happen to be wandering through Hustler Hollywood on Wednesday, July 8 around 8 pm PDT, do stop in to hear some hot erotica writers reading sizzling sex scenes, including yours truly! Oh, and if you want to know what I'll be wearing, no need to leave it to the imagination. I'll be donning my favorite erotica-writing outfit pictured above. It always helps to dress the part.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

I was dazzled by fireworks last night, but the fun continues with a fabulous feast by a crackling bonfire over at Scarlett Greyson's as we celebrate the pleasures of thyme.

There's a mouthwatering recipe for polenta, a buffet of fresh fruit and s'mores with dark chocolate and plenty of orange muscat to wash down the treats. I'm truly inspired to do more with thyme in my cooking now.

The topic of discussion? Well, we're pushing beyond our norms and for erotica writers that's saying something. So come on over and join us as the holiday festivities continue!

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Creativity. Isn't that what it's all about? Making something out of nothing, putting things together in a new way, stepping back from the mainstream media blitz to speak the truth in a poem, a metaphor, a story, a blog post.

Yesterday, I discovered that Alana Noel Voth nominated me for a Kreativ Blogger Award. It's an informal kind of thing, just a way of saying that you enjoy the sorts of things a blogger is exploring--coming from Alana, that is a true honor, not to mention I'm in the fine company of Emerald, Nikki Magennis and Craig Sorensen.

Now I'm supposed to mention seven bloggers I turn to for kreativity, and although three have already been mentioned and there are more than seven. But I decided to go ahead and play anyway, because it's always nice to honor cool people. I'm not expecting anyone to "pass it along" unless they want to, but here are some bloggers whose step beyond the bounds of the expected:

I'm also supposed to list seven things I love, but I love so many things, it's hard to choose. So, given that I'm recovering from a flu and just getting my appetite back, I thought I'd list seven restaurants in Berkeley that are very kreativ with their kuisine. And this really is just the tip of the iceberg.

Breads of India--the piping hot fresh-baked naan filled with nuts or paneer or garlic or coconut is breath-taking

Ajanta--the classiest Indian food on earth with satiny curries and delicious kofta

Norikonoko--homestyle Japanese cooking on Telegraph, the place I go when I'm "homesick" for Japan

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

It must be something in the air. First Alison Tyler is having wild sex dreams and now my own Herr Doktor reported an amusing nocturnal adventure he and I engaged in during the wee hours of last night. Apparently, I'd invited a few couples over for a swinging party, but--and this part is pretty nightmarish--we hadn't straightened up the house at all! On top of that Herr Doktor wasn't really happy with his choices of swing partners. Apparently I'd been rather selfish, unlike my protagonist in "John Updike Made Me Do It," and tapped couples where the guy was more appealing. Worse yet, before the action got going, he woke up, which left me feeling a bit frustrated when he related the story.

Until I remembered that today is the day Swing!: Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers, edited by Jolie du Pre, is released in a sweet take-it-to-bed-with-you print edition. This is one fantastic collection, offering every possibility of couple sharing fun. And the action never ends before the satisfying climax! So, if you're more of an old-fashioned type, be sure to pick up a copy for a sizzling summer read.

In honor of the new release, I'm posting another excerpt from my story, "John Updike Made Me Do It," which takes place just when the party in a Tahoe ski cabin gets going good.

"John Updike Made Me Do It"

The sliding doors swished open behind us and Jurgen and Katharina appeared. As Jill promised, they climbed into the hot tub totally nude.

I felt Nick’s body stiffen beside me. No doubt he was stiffening in his swim trunks as well. I myself sneaked a look at Jurgen: dark blond pubic hair, an uncut dick, gorgeous thigh muscles. No wonder Jill lingered on the deck in her robe, enthralled at this vision of Nordic male beauty.

“Get in, babe,” Ben called, gesturing to the empty place between him and Jurgen.

“I’m not sure I have the nerve to do this,” Jill said with a small laugh.

“You’ve lived in Europe, liebchen. I remember when you were not so shy,” Jurgen teased.

Jaw set bravely, she took a deep breath and shrugged out of the robe. She practically sprinted the five steps to the hot tub, one arm over her full breasts, the other shielding her crotch.

“The sky did not fall down upon you, did it?” Jurgen said with an indulgent smile. He smiled at the rest of the bathing suit brigade, eyebrows lifted in a dare.

Nick shot back with a “no thanks” and Ben shook his head.

I’m not sure why I rose to the bait. Maybe I wanted to shatter their image of me as a coward and a prude. Or maybe on a subconscious level, I wanted to nudge things along. “Oh, I’m going to get naked, I just thought I’d wait until we all start having sex.”

Five heads turned to me, mouths gaping.

Jurgen’s eyes flickered with approval. “I have no argument with that. Or is this an example of the famous American sense of humor?”

“Don’t underestimate Maria,” Ben said with his usual I’m-just-joking grin. “She acts innocent, but I’m told she has a wild side. She’s into swinging.”

Katharina’s serene smile left no doubt it was true. “It is very refreshing to meet another daring couple,” she said, turning to Nick. “I see you agree sex is a healthy adult pleasure also. Like skiing.”

Nick and I exchanged a glance. Be careful what you wish for….

But I saw something else in his eyes, too, a reflection of my own dark urges. The barriers of ordinary life had indeed softened in the thin mountain air. It was as if I were floating, beyond the rules of time and space. This could be Europe or 1968. We could be our parents or grandparents, taking that first sweet taste of sexual possibility, or characters from a novel whose very existence depended on doing something shocking to keep the pages turning.

I’m not exactly sure who actually made the first move, but things progressed quickly from there....

Now in E-Book!

An American's Love Affair with Japan

An Erotic Trip to Japan

My debut novel, Amorous Woman, will take you on an erotic trip to a Japan few tourists ever see.I'm happy to announce that it's available as an e-book Stonebridge Press' erotica line, Iro Books.Read excerpts and the glowing reviews on my website. For a visual preview, check out my provocative Amorous Womanbook trailer.Seeing is believing!

You can hear me read an excerpt from Amorous Woman at “In the Flesh” in NYC. The beginning of the video is choppy, but please be patient--it gets better!

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